The coccyx-shaped Lofoten archipelago defiantly juts out into
the frigid waters of the Norwegian Sea.
Situated north of the Arctic Circle, winter in
this chain of mountainous islands rising straight out of the roiling ocean like
an impenetrable wall of rock, is utterly spellbinding, an otherworldly
wonderland of frosted glass etched against constantly changing skies that range
from steel-grey to candy-pink.
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Scenic view of Reine on the island of Moskenesøya
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Comprised of a multitude of various sized islands, according
to Norse legend the Lofoten archipelago was created by the hammer-wielding god Thor,
who flung fistfuls of rocks into the sea. The population of 24,500 is
concentrated on four main islands running from Austvågøy in the north through
Vestvågøy and Flakstadøya to Moskenesøya in the south. The E10 highway now links
these four islands via a series of bridges and sea tunnels.
We fly into Kiruna in neighbouring Sweden where a 4X4 vehicle hire is half the
price of that in Norway,
and where we are able to avail of much cheaper food and alcohol for our week’s self-catering
stay in Lofoten. A six hour drive brings us to our first accommodation at Lyngværet
in Austvågøy, a cosy and beautifully furnished wooden cabin above the island’s rocky
shoreline. After a three night stay we drive south to Moskenesøya and the fishing
village of Å (pronounced ‘aw’ which means ‘rivulet’ in Old Norse), a cluster of
rust-red and ochre-yellow houses overlooked by a formidable range of snow-frosted
mountains, a film-maker’s dream. Here we settle into a rustically furnished
traditional fisherman’s cabin jutting right out over the cellophane-clear water
in the harbour.
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| Rorbuer in the fishing village of Å. Ours is the second from the left |
Everywhere the raw salt-laden air is pungent with the unmistakable
stench of fish which constantly assaults the nostrils. Lofoten is the world’s
largest cod fishery. For centuries fishermen from near and far have converged on
these islands in midwinter, chasing great shoals of skrei (Arctic cod in their prime) that have migrated south from the
Barents Sea to spawn. Cod has long been the lifeblood of this archipelago, and
the ubiquitous rust-red rorbuer - wooden
huts on spindly stilts projecting over the sea and connected by wooden walkways
that were once the temporary homes of the migrant fishermen - are among the islands' most characteristic sights. Formerly painted with a mixture of fish blood and
cod-liver oil and sporting grass roofs, many, including those we stayed in,
have now been converted into tourist accommodation. For the fishing industry
has witnessed a drastic decline from its zenith at the turn of the twentieth
century. In those days something like 25,000 fishermen would descend on the
Lofotens from late-January for the three month cod-fishing season.
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| The Stockfish Museum in the village of Å |
However, despite this decline, the islanders remain firmly wedded
to the fishing industry and as ubiquitous as the rorbuer are the enormous wooden drying frames (hjell) that seem to occupy
every windswept rock. These are used to produce stockfish, cod that have been
decapitated, gutted, split along the spine and hung over poles by their tails
to dry in the salty Arctic air from February
to May, when cold weather conditions protect the fish from insects and prevents uncontrolled bacterial growth. After this, it is removed from the hjell to
be matured for another two to three months indoors in a dry and airy
environment until it is around a fifth of its original weight. Losing
none of its nutritional value in the drying process, the Lent-friendly
stockfish is much prized, particularly in the Catholic countries of southern
Europe, and also in Nigeria where
demand has risen sharply and in 2014 eclipsed exports to Italy.
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| Stockfish fillets drying on hjell in the cold Arctic air |
A more macabre sight are the racks of severed cod heads bound
for the West African market. Their mouths wide open as if gasping for their
last breath reveal grisly rows of razor sharp teeth but no tongues - these are
a local delicacy and have been cut out. Strung together in snow-dusted bundles,
their swim-bladders hang down like limp balloons from beneath blackened gills,
while overhead cawing crows and wailing seagulls wheel in the wind, awaiting
their chance to swoop down to peck out their glazed and lifeless eyes.
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| Racks of fish heads drying near Myrland |
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| Cod fish heads being dried for export to West Africa |
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| An aerial view of fish heads drying on racks on the island of Vestvågøy |
The Lofoten archipelago is also the centre of the country’s
whaling industry. Norway is
one of just three nations, along with Japan
and Iceland,
that continue to hunt whales against the tide of public opinion. Setting aside
the opprobrium of those who wish to see whaling banned, we dine out at the
upmarket Paleo Arctic restaurant in Svolvær
which draws inspiration from a time when we lived as hunters and gatherers. Here
we feast upon smoked fin whale with a soft poached egg, organic sour cream and
Norwegian crisp bread. This is followed by a succulent grilled fillet of wild reindeer
with mushrooms, mountain cranberry, pickled raisins and seasonal root
vegetables, rounded off with a divinely spiced panna cotta and washed down with
a hearty Rioja. The food didn’t stick in my croup, but the bill most certainly
did!
The weather at this latitude is mercurial and unpredictable
and can change in an instance; our mid-February photography trip unhappily
coincides with a period of bitterly cold unsettled weather. For days on end a
cruel Arctic wind howls through the narrow streets of the fiskevær (fishing villages) and
lifts great columns of whirling spindrift that tear malevolently across the frigid
landscape. The mercury plummets to sub-zero temperatures draining every last
vestige of warmth from our bodies, the blinding spindrift blasts our faces which
sting with the eviscerating cold and our fingers are too numb and frozen to operate a
camera. On such days a shot of Linie,
the famous Norwegian aquavit matured at sea in oak sherry casks, is a very
welcome antidote against the deep-freezer climate.
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| The sun momentarily breaks through the cloud during a sudden storm |
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| Martin attempting timelapse photography on a wild and windy Haukland Beach |
The grey-green sea seethes, the pounding surf slams onto ice
encrusted shorelines and waves lash against the stilted rorbuer that are somehow anchored firmly enough to shelves of rock
to resist the relentless onslaught of the ocean. As I watch a brightly lit
fishing boat making for shore near Reine at dusk, I think of the fishermen of
yore heading back through storm-tossed waters to land their catch, drawn ashore
by the welcoming warm glow of candlelight from the windows of these rorbuer in the fiskevær dotting
the coast. Many did not make it, and every fishing community has its share of
tragic stories of men pitched to a watery grave by the merciless sea.
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| The view from Flakstad towards Hustingen |
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| A lone rorbu stands at the entrance to an inlet at Tind |
Indeed, American novelist Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, A Descent into the Maelström, tells the
story of a man who survived his ship being drawn into and swallowed by the Moskstraumen, a system of tidal eddies
and whirlpools between Lofoten Point on Moskenesøya and the islet of Mosken. The
words of William Whiting’s hymn, Eternal Father,
Strong to Save, could have been written for the folk of Lofoten
who, for centuries cut off from the mainland and surrounded by the sea, were forced by necessity to place their fate in the hands of the elements:
‘Oh, hear us when we
cry to Thee,
For those in peril on
the sea!’
For hours at a time heavy falls of snow blow by the windows of our hut in a
horizontal blur. The thick flakes quickly bank up against the door and gather
in the corners of the window frames, shrouding the surrounding landscape in an
even blanket of pillow-soft whiteness. There is something mesmerising and deeply
relaxing about watching the falling snow from the comfort of a cabin warmed by
a wood burning stove, and time appears to stand still.
The lacerating and whining winds eventually blow themselves
out, leaving a profound but temporary stillness until the next weather front
sweeps in. The great cloak of whey-white snow seems to muffle most sound save
the constant shrieking of the seabirds. As we sally forth into this white
wonderland, the crunch and squeal of the freshly fallen powdery flakes beneath
my boots is deeply gratifying and the creation of pristine boot prints seems to
bring out the inner child in me!
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| An abandoned ice blasted farmhouse near Yttersand |
Between these squally weather fronts the sun appears
fleetingly, at times a match-head blazing white hot and amber, splitting the
flint-grey sky into patches of speedwell-blue
interrupted by billowing cloud in shades of pale-apricot, smoke-yellow and chalky-mauve;
minutes later it is a wan disc floating in an immense misty greyness like a
Chinese lantern. And all the while the monochrome landscape exudes a pearly-grey opalescence and
seems to gleam with surreal lucidity against these extraordinary kaleidoscopic skies.
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| View from Austvågøy across to Vestvågøy |
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| A watery, snow flurried dawn taken from the balcony of our rorbu in Å |
In the feeble sunlight the reflections of the rorbuer and the mountains appear to float and shimmer with a mirage-like quality in the becalmed waters of numerous inlets; the snow
glitters in the low sun angle as if it was pulverised diamond dust and
glistening icicles drip like candle wax from the eaves of the huts. The blackened
naked boughs of the birch groan under the weight of their newly acquired white
finery, while conifers look as if they have been lifted straight from the pages
of a Hans Christian Andersen fairy story. Then there are truly enchanting evenings
when the sky is tinged with a candy pink blush which announces the settling
sun.
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| Nusfjord is one of the oldest and best preserved fiskevær (fishing villages) in Norway |
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| Rorbuer near Reine |
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| Icicles ooze from the eaves of a rorbu in the village of Nusfjord |
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| Candy pink dusk near Nusfjord |
Even on the dullest day, the near-shore has an aquamarine
hue which fades into bottle-green which then gives way to the petrol-blue yonder of the deep sea speckled
with white horses, all of which serve to enhance the deep gold of picture-postcard perfect
sandy beaches.
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| Ramberg Beach panorama |
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| Cabin at Ramberg Beach |
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| Huakland Beach between the storms |
In the blue hour, the chilled lavender-blue landscape contrasts with the warm amber rectangles of light emanating from the windows of the rorbuer, and the settlements hemmed in between mountain and sea resemble a string of fairy lights which are reflected in the inky-blue water.
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| Another weather front sweeping in off the Norwegian Sea towards the fishing village of Reine |
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| Blue hour at the fishing village of Hamnøy on Moskenes island |
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Sakrisøy Rorbuer
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| The wizard's hat-shaped mountain at Reine |
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| View looking down on Sakrisøy from the nearby hill of Olenilsøya |
These brief interludes between the storms are rewarded with
dramatic views of mountains of the kind only young children draw – spiky,
sky-piercing, majestic - and attract scores of other photographers all jostling
for space, as eager as we are to commit these breathtaking vistas to film. Unfortunately,
the constantly cloudy skies mean that we are not treated to the celestial light
show of the Aurora Borealis which is undoubtedly the main draw to this northern
region in winter for many photographers.
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| Rorbuer in Reine beneath steel grey skies |
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| View over Ramberg Beach |
Our stay in Lofoten has been a mere prelude, the place has permeated my very soul. As we drive away from our final photo stop in the heritage-listed
Nusfjord fishing village, we are already imagining an autumn return,
when the mountains will have cast off their snowy apparel opening up a whole
new world of walking, trekking and photo opportunities amid the unparalleled
beauty and splendour of this, The Kingdom of Cod.
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| View of Bjørntinden and Møntinden from Yttersand Beach |
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| Panoramic view from Yttersand Beach |
